"Sylvie," he whispered brokenly.

"Hugh, dear, you're safe now; please speak; please laugh; you frighten
me more than anything--why is he so silent, Pete? Bella, tell me
what's wrong?"

"He's been crouching there on the damp, cold ground for hours," said
Bella, "not knowing what might happen." Her voice trembled; she passed
a hand as shaking as her voice across Hugh's bent head. "You're safe
now. You're safe now," she murmured.

Hugh's teeth chattered, and he bent closer to the fire.

"Ugh--it was cold down there," he said, "like a grave! Sylvie, come
here." Just an echo of his old imperious fashion it was--though the
look was that of a beggar for alms. "Give me those warm little hands
of yours." She knelt close to him, rubbed his hands in hers, looking
up at Pete with a tremulous mouth that asked for advice.

"He'll be all right in a minute," said Pete. "You talk to him,
Sylvie."

"Yes, you talk--you talk. Do you remember how I talked to you when
you were afraid of the bears--ah!" He drew her head savagely against
his breast, folded his arms about it, stroked the hair. "Sylvie! Is
it all right? Can it be--the same?"

"Yes, yes, why not?"

"Were you frightened?"